


Le Mortes D'Arthur (The Deaths of Arthur)

by begin_again



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthurian, F/F, F/M, Historical Fantasy, Historical Figures, Historical Inaccuracy, Kings & Queens, M/M, Once and Future King, Reincarnation, Return of the King
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29916570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/begin_again/pseuds/begin_again
Summary: Now - In the centuries since Arthur's death Merlin has sought out and lived as aid to many incarnations of the Once and Future King. The peasant, the philosopher, the King to unite Britain, the Queen to expand the Empire. In his journey through the ages Merlin is faced with the task of questioning his own morality and that of Arthur's legacies, all the while suffering the realities of a world much crueler than what Camelot had once been. He is accompanied only by the daughter of Morgana, the child called Morgan Le Fay.Then - Arthur is dead and Camelot is in mourning, but none so more than Merlin. Where the rest fo Camelot only witnessed their king disappear into war, Merlin watched his destiny die. Now in the aftermath, new secrets come to life in the form of a child and Queen Gwen is pregnant. Long Live Queen Gwen and All Help Camelot.
Relationships: Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Morgana (Merlin), Merlin (Merlin)/Original Female Character(s), Merlin (Merlin)/Original Male Character(s), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Kudos: 1





	Le Mortes D'Arthur (The Deaths of Arthur)

**Author's Note:**

> **Don't expect ANY historical accuracy say for dates and major events. The historical figures used in this fiction are being altered for the sake of narrative and don't necessarily resemble their real life counterparts.**

He couldn’t remember how long it had been. He tried remembering again. He had at one point maintained a system for tracing the years, but as the years turned into decades and those into centuries – things were lost. As things tended to get. The warlock felt a fly on his leg, he smashed it. There were so many flies here, the stench drew them in. Human beings were disgusting, he though, when not properly maintained. It was difficult to maintain anything in the wet and cold his prison provided him. Even now he was dripping with filth and mud, with bits of hay from the makeshift bed clinging to his clothes. The warlock smiled coarsely to himself. What would they think of him, if they could see him now? This thought amused him often, it had done so before his imprisonment too. Every time he worked a spell or a woman, for a moment his mind wandered and though; what would Camelot think? Gwen, the Knights, Gaius, Arthur. Sometimes he even considered Morgana’s reaction. Would they stare at him in horror? Grimace at his horrid odor? Stand back in shock at his half mad laughter? If any of them had spent a decade (had it been a decade) in the Tower of London, they would be mad also.  
In the close distance a door creaked before banging open, at least a half a dozen footsteps following suit. Had the time come for them to execute him again? He laughed; would Bloody Mary actually burn him this time? On the opposite side of the circular cell the door opened, but the half a dozen guard did not enter – and neither did Mary Tudor. Instead, his visitor was taller, pale as moonlight. The ruffled collar of her blood red dress stood in the back, making her look slightly less human. He might have never recognized her had it not been for her red hair, and the look in her eyes. A look to match her father.  
“I thought…your sister?”  
“Dead,” said Elizabeth Tudor, “I am Queen now.”  
“Well then,” he began nearly tauntingly, “Your grace.” He bowed his head where he sat. “I would do more but…” he raised his left arm, iron clad in chains, “I am…predisposed. As you can probably tell.”  
The Tudor queen said nothing, she moved around the room – with its stacked boxes, haybales, rotting food in the corner – eyeing him as though he were an exhibit. It was not the fear Mary had looked on him with, there was no horror behind this Queen’s eyes. She stopped a distance Infront of him, close enough to see him properly but not to risk being touched.  
“My sister always gave the impression her pet in the tower was terrifying,” she said smoothly, “You are not terrifying. Any more than when I knew you, Myrddin.”  
He didn’t laugh, Myrddin was a terrible name. He couldn’t recall why he had chosen it. A Welsch translation of his actual name, he thought it might be. Merlin was far too recognizable, thanks to Thomas Mallory. “Might I inquire, your grace,” he said, dropping the amused façade, “As to the purpose of your-” She moved towards him without warning and he flinched in response.  
“So they’re right,” she said, drawing back, “My sister’s games did break you somewhat.”  
Merlin heaved, not turning back to her. She wasn’t wrong, she was clever as he remembered. For an instant he smirked into the wall. To imagine he remembered her better than most of Camelot.  
“I know who you are, naturally,” the Queen went on, she sat down gingerly on a lump of boxes and hay besides her, “Mary told no one, but torturers tend to remember such things that involve legendary Kings,” she paused for a moment, looking him up and down, considering him. “You are Emrys.” It wasn’t a question.  
He snapped his head to look at her. “Does it really matter, at this point?” was all he could say.  
Elizabeth glared at him, there was not a semblance of pity in her eyes. Rage maybe, and something else. Like ambition - but with limited emotion. Elizabeth was not her father nor her sister, she did not believe she was sent by God nor did she act like it. She had come there to complete a task and would not leave until it was done.  
“I come to ask you one thing, magician,” she said, measuredly, “why would a man of King Arthur’s court, spy on England for a Scottish Queen?”  
Now is when he laughed. “You say that as though it means anything,” he said slowly and seriously, “I am of Albion. Not Scotland or England or Wales or of any other place. If I spy for Her grace in the north it is for the advancement of Albion, not of Scotland.” He scoffed, he thought maybe his own stench was beginning to affect him.  
The Queen did not move as he spoke but afterwards, she put an elbow down in front of her, “How does Mary Queen of Scots help Albion?”  
Merlin raised a brow, taken aback, “She doesn’t…” he started, not entirely sure if he should go on, “But her son…might.”  
“Mary doesn’t have a son,” Elizabeth said, unmoving.  
“She will…” went on Merlin, “a man born many times before, not always as a man, mind you.” He chuckled before stopping himself, and when he glanced up at Elizabeth her unblinking eyes were gazing unto his. Like cat eyes did. She wasn’t amused or unamused, only curious. He felt his face flush at what he imagined what her childlike amusement.  
“This boy will bring peace to… Albion?” she asked.  
“He…might. He has done so before.”  
“So, Arthur rises again, in the son of Mary?”  
He scoffed again, “When you word it that way it sounds biblical.”  
Elizabeth straightened, “God doesn’t care enough to be involved in such things.” Merlin starred at her, the protestant Queen, before she went on, “You’ll be released.”  
A long silence. “Why?” his voice sounded deeper there.  
“When this boy is old, you’ll tell him,” said Elizabeth, “of the English queen who let his servant free.”  
“Yes,” Merlin said, turning his head, “But why?”  
She stopped, “I have scarcely seen peace in this country,” she said, looking into the distance past him, “perhaps others will.”  
He said nothing.  
“What was it like?” she said, and turned to him, “Camelot.”  
A long moment past. “Honestly?” The warlock said, “I…I can hardly remember what it looked like.” She looked back at him, this time where was pity, or a flash of it.  
“Until we meet again then, Emrys.” She stood and walked to the door. She knocked three times before the door opened and she left as swiftly as she had entered.  
A while later a man came and unbound his chains handing him food and new clothes as he led him to a packed horse. Merlin looked at the world, trying to remember how long it had been since he saw sunlight. Elizabeth had been barely an adolescent. He took his horse and his things, a new sword included, and went off, heading North. Arthur’s mother awaited him.


End file.
